


Bluestreak's Buffet

by AgentOHare



Series: Transformers MTMTE Vore and other sins [4]
Category: Transformers Generation One
Genre: Belly Rubs, Overeating, Stomach Ache, Stuffing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-28
Updated: 2019-11-28
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:54:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21594907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AgentOHare/pseuds/AgentOHare
Summary: Bluestreak loved fuel, and the feast allowed him to have as much as he wanted. This is where the phrase, "Too much of a good thing" comes into play...(Happy Tanksgiving yall)
Series: Transformers MTMTE Vore and other sins [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/762291
Comments: 3
Kudos: 31





	Bluestreak's Buffet

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to have something out by Thanksgiving so here it is. Have fun stuffing yourselves like Blue did! Okay, maybe not as much as him...

Bluestreak paused mid-chew, placing a hand over his stomach. It was getting pretty tight down there, he thought, but the fuel was so damn good that he just had to get another helping. He swallowed, and he swore he could feel his belly inch out a bit.

The Praxian youth almost never had the chance to eat until he was well and truly full, an unfortunate side effect of the war that took his hometown. Usually it was the rations that, while enough to keep a bot powered and stave off hunger, only filled three-fourths of the tank at most. 

Not this time, however. A successful raid on the Decepticons’ latest energy gathering scheme ended in the humans letting them keep the many cubes as gratitude. This resulted in a victory banquet, a rare treat that would certainly raise morale (though the human tradition known as “Thanksgiving” was occuring at about the same time and Spike was rather excited for it). But energon alone wasn’t the only thing on the menu, oh no. The Autobots had gathered many types of succulent Earthen metals and fuels (with human permission, of course), and Sunstreaker to the surprise of everybody offered to make a meal out of all of them. Until now, his interest in fuel preparation was a little known fact, but some bots (namely Ratchet and Ironhide) were skeptical, considering the prankster’s history. Nevertheless, Sunstreaker did end up cooking under the elders’ watchful optics and with Wheeljack’s assistance.

The result? A spectacular buffet, to be frank. Plain energon cubes were part of the meal, but were overshadowed by the array of mixes, alloys, goodies, and a dizzying expanse of color that was all of the other fuels. Bluestreak nearly cried seeing such a resplendent feast. And there was more than enough for every single Autobot to have as much as his spark desired. The young gunner’s mouth watered at the sight alone, but the smell! The scent made his fuel tank take on a life of its own, gurgling and shaking as if it was trying to claw its way out of Bluestreak’s body and leap into the glorious spread.

So when the toasts were over and everyone sat down to eat, Bluestreak just grabbed whatever was closest to him and dug in like nothing else mattered. The taste? Well, let’s just say that as soon as Bluestreak bit into the cube, Sunstreaker became his favorite person for the night. It was pure, unspoiled bliss. Rich, energizing flavor spread across his glossa, causing his optics to brighten, and then close with a pleased hum. He kept the fuel in his mouth for a few moments, turning it about with his glossa like some kind of connoisseur. After doing that, his head tilted back slightly and he gulped, sending the bite of cube slowly but smoothly down his esophageal tube. Licking his lips, Bluestreak knew that he wanted- no,  _ needed _ more. As the bite dropped into his gurgling tank, he had begun to chase it down with more of its kind.

Bluestreak made a point of trying as many dishes as he could, loading up his plate with ingots and screws, gels and cubes, and shavings of various rare earth metals for taste. The drinks did not disappoint either. Blends of energon and petroleum, gasolines from around the world, and even some liquid metals like mercury and gallium all served to refresh and diversify the palate. Whenever Bluestreak found a taste wanting, he’d take a swig of simple gasoline; it had a kick to it, a spiciness that could be likened to cinnamon whiskey for humans (though gas obviously did not taste that way to them…  _ pleeeeease _ do not drink gas).

The food was amazing, but what Bluestreak failed to consider was his energon starved past. If you came across fuel in the dilapidated hellscape and you couldn’t carry it, then you crammed as much of it down your throat as the laws of physics would allow.

So Bluestreak kept eating and eating and eating. And his tank grew tighter and tighter and tighter.

Eventually, something had to give.

He barely registered it when the aching began. He assumed that his belly was digging into the table’s edge. So he scooted back a bit, and resumed his meal.

Bluestreak did feel quite full, but the nagging idea of  _ “this is a rare fuel source, take advantage as much as you can” _ kept him eating. He had reached the point where discomfort has just begun to set in. But it all tasted  _ so good _ . He didn’t want to regret this meal, so he took a short break to stretch out a little, leaning back in his chair. As he did so, he made the mistake of glacing downward.

Sweet Holy Carrier of Primus, he was _ huge _ .

Bluestreak found himself leaning back in his seat and resting a hand on top of his big belly. Only now did it occur to him that  _ maybe _ he had been eating too much.

He was beyond full. He had passed that point a plate and a half ago. Why did the fuel have to be so delicious?

His stomach strained to hold down all the rich fuels that had been packed into it. He couldn't even burp because any air pockets were buried in the dense mass of fuel, unable to move. All Bluestreak could do was wait for some of the fuel to digest, inevitably creating more gas to bloat his belly.

The sharpshooter realized this just as a wave of nausea roiled within. He also realized two more things: that he had eaten more than he ever had all his life, and that he was about to have a worse tank ache than he ever had all his life.

His face was lightly twisted, discomfort pressing his lips into a tight line. He thanked his lucky stars that all of the other Autobots at the table were either busy eating themselves or chatting with others. When he was sure nobody was looking, he slipped a hand under the table, attempting to discreetly rub his churning tummy. 

Unfortunately, Bluestreak was not one to blend into the background so easily. Around the Ark he was known to talk whenever the opportunity presented itself, so one would think that he’d be regaling his cohorts with whatever nonsense was on his mind at the moment. A quiet Bluestreak was simply inconceivable.

Wheeljack was the first to notice. Eccentric or not, the engineer knew that the young Datsun’s silence was louder than any of his anecdotes. Concerned, he tried to strike up a conversation.

“What’s up Blue? You’ve been awful quiet tonight…”

The young gunner spoke quickly and quietly, in fear of his meal coming up with his words.

“M’fine.”

As soon as he said that, he had to snap his mouth shut to swallow an uprising of bubbles from the depths of his intake. After that was done, Bluestreak dared to glance upwards for a moment.

Oh sweet Primus people were  _ staring _ . His tank chose this exact moment to churn. Loudly.

“Hey…” Wheeljack began. “You feeling alright there? Your tank sounds all kinds of upset.”

Even more pairs of optics flitted to him, and his faceplates darkened more.

“M’ _ fine _ , ‘Jack.” 

Bluestreak’s belly interjected with a loud, rippling roar, insisting that it was in fact not fine. Yet more optics went to the direction of the noise, and that was the exact moment when Bluestreak’s spark left his body.

“Buddy, I think that maybe you ate a little too much.”

“I’m not  _ that _ full.” Bluestreak mumbled carefully. The mere action of muttering caused his stomach to lurch.

“Is there anything I can-”

“Hey Bluestreak!” Another Datsun, Smokescreen, called out with a cheery wave. “I just remembered something cool I found on the side of the road during patrol today. Wanna come to my room to see it?”

Bluestreak took the hint, and nodded at his fellow Praxian.

Slowly, unsteadily, he stood up. He struggled for a second to get up, as the new weight in his gut threw his center of balance off. The motion caused the mass of fuel to quake in his belly, freeing a small air bubble. Before he could stop himself, an airy belch rushed up Bluestreak’s intake.

_ g _ _ rr _ _ rR _ _ rra _ _ aA _ _ A _ _ AAA _ _ AAa _ _ aAA _ _ ARrr _ _ rR _ _ RRpP!! _ _! _ _! _

Some murmuring rose, and the young Praxian’s faceplate flushed even more. But it wasn’t because of his gas. Rather, many a pair of optics were directed to Bluestreak’s abdomen. It was easy to see why- it was enormous. There was a pronounced hemisphere pushing out of the normally flat midsection, distorting the armor and stretching out the protoform.

It was gurgling and groaning something fierce, and no amount of discreet rubbing had helped to quiet it. Bluestreak could do nothing else but bury his burning face into his hands.

Carefully, the two Datsuns left the table and made their way down the hallway, stopping at Smokeskreen’s door. Once inside, Bluestreak flopped down on his friend’s berth with a groan.

Bluestreak supposed that now was as good of a time as any to survey the damage. His now gargantuan stomach was at maximum capacity. Inside the taut abdomen, the fuel tank was rumbling and bubbling and churning. The poor gunner’s tummy was so packed with fuel that it had no give whatsoever. It felt like a solid sphere, like a bowling ball. Smokescreen’s digits tapped against the protoform when he pat it.

“Holy slag... Blue, how did you even  _ do _ this?”

“Ugh, I ate  _ waaaaay _ too much, that’s how...” Bluestreak said as he felt his bloated belly. “I can’t believe how much fuel I crammed in there. I mean seriously, look at it!” 

“Slag, I know. I’m gonna get you some medicine, you just sit tight.”

Smokescreen soon returned with a vial of something that looked like it belonged in a chemistry lab rather than a fuel tank. Nevertheless, Bluestreak choked it down for its supposed relieving properties. His friend stood by the edge of the bed.

“Hey Blue? I’m gonna try a massage, see if I can get rid of some of that pressure.”

Bluestreak gave a little nod, mouth clamped shut. Smokescreen found the action amusing. A quiet Bluestreak? He never thought he’d see the day.

He began below the gunner’s ribs, running his hands back and forth on both sides. He then lowered himself to the sides, and then the bottom, cradling both the tank and its heavy contents. Then, his hands went atop the curve and began kneading into the contours of the dome.

Below the hands, Bluestreak groaned. “I don’t think I’m feeling any better, Smokey.”

“That’s because I haven’t found any pressure pockets yet. Give me some time.”

Somewhere around the center of the Praxian’s tummy, there was a spot that felt...off.

Smokescreen pushed hard.

Feeling a distinct pop in his stomach, Bluestreak thought for sure that he was going to throw up. His optics widened and his doorwings hiked up in alarm. Something big rumbled up his intake, and his mouth was forced open…

_ b _ _ b _ _ b _ _ B _ _ BBBB _ _ G _ _ G _ _ GR _ _ R _ _ Ru _ _ u _ _ uU _ _ U _ _ UUa _ _ a _ _ A _ _ A _ _ A _ _ A _ _ AARRRRaa _ _ aa _ _ A _ _ A _ _ AA _ _ AA _ _ aa _ _ a _ _ RR _ _ RrrBBBbbBpppP _ _ PPp _ _!!! _ _!! _ _!!! _

. ..in the form of a lengthy, deep, rumbling, resonating, eardrum-destroying belch.

Bluestreak panted when it was over, tears pricking the corners of his optics. It felt so much better, having that massive bubble released from his system.

“Haha, there we  _ go! _ ” Smokescreen grinned. “Bet that helped at least a little.”

“Y-you bet…”

With the extra room, the medicine and the rubs had more to work with, so Bluestreak’s pain began to fade.

After the session had ended, Smokescreen allowed his friend to sleep in his room. Seeing as how he wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon, Bluestreak complied, falling into recharge for about a joor before waking up.

Ever so gradually, the fuel began to shift, little by little, downwards. At the deepest point in Bluestreak’s tank, a valve slowly opened, and whatever had been liquified began to drain into the lower tubing. Eventually, a precious little bit of room appeared at the top of the tank, and Bluestreak felt like he could start to vent again. More and more of the slurry was swallowed down the intestinal tubes, allowing more solvent to reach the fuel ball. The churning and gurgling began to crescendo as digestion truly kicked in.

Of course, more digestion meant more gas, so Bluestreak was letting out burp after burp, becoming more frequent as time passed. What sweet relief it was! Now that his belly was a little bit softer, rubbing it actually felt  _ good _ . And with more rubbing came more burping. The fuel tank rumbled and gurgled beneath Bluestreak’s hands, happy for the attention.

Bluestreak rested on the berth with his optics closed, a faint smile along with a tiny pinch of his brow ridge. He was in the throes of a food coma, but by now it was the good king that made him feel warm, heavy and satisfied.

“Mmph, hey Smokey?”

“Yeah Blue?”

“Issinit some kind of human holiday about eating? Hankstiving?”

“ _ Thanksgiving _ .”

“Yeah. That.” Bluestreak murmured.

Thanksgiving, eh? He wouldn’t mind doing it again. Just… with a bit more restraint this time.


End file.
